


A Study in Destruction and Distraction

by KarlyAnne



Series: The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Couch Cuddles, Crack, Crafty!Sherlock, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Angst, Injured Sherlock, Injury Recovery, John's Jumpers, Kissing, Love, M/M, Major Character Injury, Part of a series but can stand alone, Patient John, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Smut, arts and crafts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 10:28:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4663227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needs to clear his head, for just a second. Just one second will suffice to ascertain, remember, where Sherlock was. Is. He doesn’t know. </p>
<p>Voices filter in, intangible at first, becoming more and more distinct with his lifting confusion.  </p>
<p>His progress through the rubble is slow, too slow. He doubles his efforts by sheer will, struggles towards the sounds.</p>
<p>He wants to reach them, let them know he is there, and only then it occurs to him to shout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Destruction and Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, that awkward moment when your PhD supervisor says that an article should be “approximately 8,000 words” and you’re mumbling “Oh, so, a oneshot.”
> 
> This is the third part of our beloved series, in which the stories are all in the same universe but could be read as “compatible standalones,” as [phoenixdaisy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixdaisy/pseuds/phoenixdaisy) put it. 
> 
> Come say hi to CWB and yours truly on our brand new writing Tumblr – [Fic or Die](http://ficordie.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Do also continue providing excellent inspiration for this series by taking our short [poll](https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/YP2WFGM). We’ve been loving your ideas since the first reply came in.
> 
> A world of thanks to [CWB](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/pseuds/cwb) \- who forbids me from using expressions like _pubic symphysis_ \- for editing this with incredible skill and for letting me bask in her brilliance. I learn so much from you. I’m grateful and humbled every single day. 
> 
> Another world of thanks to PurpleHairedTree who somehow manages to create more hours in the day just to beta my fic, and to provide expert medical advice on how to maim the boys _just_ right. You’re a creature of magic and awesome dust. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

 

Complete silence.

It is the third thing he registers after the light that blinds him, and the dust which fills his eyes and mouth.

It is the first thing which truly alarms him.

But John has only a second of defenceless bewilderment before ringing and chaotic noise assault his ears.

Soldier’s instincts kick in and he works to raise himself from the floor and assess the situation. One thought binds together the rising panic, disorientation, and urge to run.

_Sherlock_.

He needs to find Sherlock.

Now.

He stumbles in his haste to _rush_ , realising he’s not sure in which direction to go.

Beneath his feet, shards of glass are crushing, and rubble of varying size and nature hinders his progress around the hall.

What once was a hall.

Not five minutes ago.

It is now the baleful mirror of John’s state of mind: exposed, disordered, in ruins. Still, amidst the turmoil, only one thought is getting ever clearer.

_Find him. Assure his safety. He is all right, of course. Unharmed. Nevertheless, find him now. Sooth him. He’s fine - he has to be. And yet. Find him_.

Adrenaline shoves the pain away, but his feet will not obey him – not to the degree his will demands.

He needs to clear his head, for just a second. Just one second will suffice to ascertain, remember, where Sherlock was. Is. He doesn’t know.

Voices filter in, intangible at first, becoming more and more distinct with his lifting confusion.  

His progress through the rubble is slow, too slow. He doubles his efforts by sheer will, struggles towards the sounds.

He wants to reach them, let them know he is there, and only then it occurs to him to shout.

He finds his voice and calls out, as loud as his lungs can manage.

“John!”

Lestrade.

Exhalation and tongue finally find each other and he yells Greg’s name with all his desperate might.

This is good.

This means he’s one step closer to finding Sherlock.

He pushes forward, as quickly as his wounded body would allow, and recognizes a pathway, just as Greg makes his way through it, towards him.

Two people are close behind Greg, looking agitated, an insistent expression on their faces.

“Sir, you shouldn’t be here, the structural integrity of this whole building is compromised.”

Seemingly unseeing he walks toward Greg and coughs a single word to him.

“Sherlock….”

“He’s not here?”

“We split… We went in different directions. He… he was headed to… to… the library. North.

“We have people on the way there, John, we’ll find him.”

“No… no.”

“You need to get checked, now. You need stitches, and to check if anything is broken.”

“I’m not leaving without him.”

John isn’t sure how much time the exchange that follows takes. It can’t be long – the professionals on the scene wouldn’t allow such waste of time – but he makes to go to where he imagines Sherlock should be, when Lestrade’s radio comes to life.

And John doesn’t know if he should feel dread or elation as he hears “Sir, we found him,” over the radio, so he only feels nausea.

They’re out now. The sun is relentless in his eyes, non-existent in his bones, and he makes his way to a small commotion, where he knows he needs to be. There, Sherlock is lying on a stretcher, injured but awake, irrefutably alive, and John flies to his side.

The sight isn’t a becoming one; it’s quite bloody, but a deeper analysis reveals that it is probably not as bad as it seems: some bruised areas that will surely colour quite decoratively, some cuts, two ribs that are most likely cracked, not broken. An ankle which has seen better days. And – to his utter relief – probably only a mild concussion.

No words were exchanged until now, John busy examining Sherlock, Sherlock busy cataloguing John.

Now their eyes meet and Sherlock breathes _you’re okay_ , and John nods empathically and answers “you’re going to be okay.” Sherlock blinks once in recognition, and they both let out a heavy exhale.

The EMTs hoist Sherlock into an ambulance and John follows as if they were tethered to each other.

Lightheaded from relief and his crashing adrenaline, John kneels by the stretcher, leans over Sherlock protectively, touches his lips to his forehead and closes his eyes. Sherlock’s breathing is even, only slightly laboured.  

***

The way to the hospital passes in a blurry haze, as does the admittance and the subsequent examinations and diagnosis. John pays no mind to any information of no medical significance, concentrating solely on Sherlock’s condition and the nuances of his facial expressions.  

At last they are left alone, in a quiet room, where Sherlock is to stay overnight. The wounded detective is finally allowed to surrender to the pull of slumber.  

There, reassured and wrung out, John slumps in an unforgiving chair. Now, stationary, he takes notice of the fact he isn’t unharmed himself, pain and discomfort no longer veiled by adrenaline. He pushes the thought aside and concentrates on one that he’s had a few times lately.

How it’s both unbelievable, and the only possible consequence, that they’re together. That he is here, still here, with Sherlock.

Well, not exactly both.

The separation is quite clear.

It was an older version of him that found this unbelievable. His current self holds the defiant knowledge that he will always be here with Sherlock. That he would simply not have it any other way.

The older John saw this as the thing that could not be. Higher than hope, not executable. Simply not compatible with the fabric of reality. Not just the possibility of Sherlock theoretically returning his affections, but the notion of corporeal them; cuddling on the couch, good-morning kisses on backs of necks in the kitchen, both of them together, under one sheet, not even air between them.

Biologically speaking, much of the old John is gone. Old cells replaced by new cells. But the neurons in his cerebral cortex… Well, no one knows for sure. Some still hold that you are born with all the neurons you’ll ever have. Some new findings strongly support neurogenesis does occur. Either way, he knows that his re-genesis is very much real.

Once they got together, every doubt, every apprehension, vanished. Replaced by the sense that his heart and his home are finally one.

And he wonders if Sherlock knows.

Of course he knows they love each other. Fiercely. Their loyalty, devotion, mutual regard have long ago been cemented in action, and by now, even words.

But he has no idea if Sherlock realises how much he gives John, how enriched he feels, still. Not in some master-apprentice asymmetrical dynamic, but in what feels like the most delicate harmonious symbiosis.

And though it has been good, he recognized it as such from the start, it is just now that it shines with such clarity to him, just how rare it is.

It feels presumptuous to him, to deem his relationship above all others. He doesn’t care. This information is for them alone, it’s Sherlock he wishes to enlighten, no one else.

John looks at Sherlock’s sleeping face, and he thinks that he needs to tell him. Not that there is any urgency to it – there are no big revelations or confessions to be made. It’s just that now, seeing Sherlock so still, defenceless, human, he aches to tell him how much. He inches closer to the bed, scraping his chair on the floor, leans his head next to Sherlock’s and closes his eyes again.

***

It’s around noon, and they are shuffling out of the car Mycroft sent for them. They are sore and fed up with the hospital, and weary by the events of the past few days. Sherlock has only one good leg to stand on; he’ll be using crutches for a while.

They drag themselves up the stairs - John supporting Sherlock - and land on the couch together, as the energy they both had was just enough to get them here.

Sherlock burrows into John’s side, seeking both physical and emotional comfort, and the corner of John’s mouth twitches; he loves this side of Sherlock.

John thinks that now would be a good time, they’re home, they’re recovering. Finally, they have some privacy, and it’s calm, quiet, good.

But Sherlock beats him to it.

“It’s the worst part.”

“Hmm?”

“The waiting. It’s the worst part of the Work.”

“Waiting for what, love?”

“When they brought me out. Until I saw you.”

John is not sure what to say, so he wraps his arm around Sherlock, careful not to aggravate his injuries, and gathers him close.

They stay there for a while, Sherlock against John, John breathing him in, just being.

Finally, the more commonplace, practical of the two, decides some doing is in order.

“All right. I’ll make some food, you need to eat a real meal. You can go lie down for a bit, it’ll take some time.”

John walks to the kitchen, and for all that his body is aching and sore, his step is sure and decisive. This he knows – taking care of Sherlock. He really does prefer a less beaten up detective, but come what may, John is ready with his medical kit and the recipe for his great-aunt Lucile’s stew.

He busies himself in the kitchen, cutting vegetables and meat, seasoning and stirring. When everything is in place, simmering on the stove, John goes to check on Sherlock.

He walks to their bedroom, and pushes the door gently.

Inside, swaddled in blankets, Sherlock is tranquil, does not seem distressed or in pain.

John wants to walk in, kneel by the bed, brush curls away from a sleep-smoothed forehead and rest his lips there again. He reins in the urge, however, not risking disturbing his debilitated partner. He’ll wake him up when it’s time to eat.

***

It starts, like so many things in life, in a rather benign fashion.

John should have known. Sherlock is not well enough to go running around London, but not incapacitated enough to be bedridden, which is a very dangerous state of affairs.

John had recuperated quicker, having sustained simpler injuries. Sherlock has some reduced mobility due to his sprained ankle, and still suffers some bruising and tender ribs.

At first, things were going according to plan. Or at least according to a plan in which they were both beaten and aching, but recovering nicely.

They paced themselves, enjoying the slower days, reading a lot, drinking tea, and when both were well enough – enjoying the most leisurely intimacy their relationship ever saw.

John had known it wouldn’t last forever – nor did he want it to – but he had enthusiastically stuck to the hope that the transition back to normalcy would be a rather smooth one.

When John returns from a brief shopping escapade, he knows that this hope was a naïve one before he even reaches their door.

Years of experience cohabitating with Sherlock Holmes have made him an expert in discerning 221B good sounds from 221B bad sounds.

These, these are not good sounds.  

Not one to turn his back on danger, John braves the remaining steps and pushes their door open.

It’s nice, he thinks, standing in the doorway, that people in a relationship still manage to surprise each other.

He’d prefer a weekend getaway or a nice bottle of wine, to this, though.

And this is his partner in everything, standing in the middle of the living room in his plaid dressing gown, surrounded by hundreds of glass jars, each containing a dozen bees.

For a moment, John’s main emotion is admiration. He’d been gone for forty-five minutes at most. This is quite a show of efficiency. Admiration gives way to bewilderment, which then transforms into his familiar Sherlock-related indignation.

“Ah, John, you’re home. I thought I’d make myself useful while you were away. The inconvenient limitations of the transport mustn’t hinder the mind.”

“Useful… How is any of this _useful_?”

“Well, John, beyond the fact that bees are one of the most fascinating insects in existence, many cases we work on have some affinity to nature. Beyond general questions regarding evolution and social systems, apiology has much to offer in specific instances. Pollination, for example -”

John has no intention of hearing this lecture through.

“ _How_ on earth is that useful enough to necessitate _this_ ,” John gestures to the living room “ _here_ ,” he gestures downward, “ _now_ ,” two fingers pointing accusingly.

“Well, I don’t always study subjects which don’t have an immediate relevancy to the Work - some disciplines are obviously redundant - but others are so rich in information that their usefulness can be judged exclusively in retrospect.”

“Sherlock, what if they _get out_?”

“They won’t.”

“They… You know what? No, I’m not having this conversation. I’m going to bed, and I’m going to sleep for eight hours. And when I wake up, all _this_ , will be gone.”

“It’s six o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Then I’ll sleep for fourteen hours.”

John doesn’t go to sleep right away, but he removes himself from a potentially flammable situation, and eventually does attempt sleep. One of his discouraging thoughts before he finally succumbs, is that he did, sort of, sign up for this.

***

The next time he comes back home, is after a shift at the surgery, and the telling element meeting him as he climbs the stairs, is smell.

The undertones of it are indistinguishable, but the key characteristic is _burnt_. Definitely burnt.

He rushes up the rest of the steps and pushes in.

The living room is clear this time, but it doesn’t take a genius to deduce ground zero is the kitchen.

The site is not as dramatic as a room full of bees, but the damage is more substantial. At first, John is not sure what, exactly, he’s seeing. But common sense, experience, and a soldier’s intuition assure him that it’s nothing good.

For a moment he just stands there, stunned.

Sherlock turns slightly to meet John’s eyes, a neutral expression on his face.

“What is all this?”

“An experiment.”

“Sherlock, you well know by now, that this answer is _anything_ but reassuring to me.”

Sherlock just stares at him, unfazed.

“Let’s try again, Sherlock. What _was_ it?”

“Really John, even you can make this deduction.”

John studies the mess covering the table, a chair, and the floor, then takes a quick glance around. He closes his eyes, lets out a heavy sigh.

“You’ve melted our toaster. Why… Why have you _melted_ our toaster?”

“The Atkinson case.”

John gapes.

“The rate in which this specific material liquefies can give us valuable data which could indicate whether it was an accident or an act of sabotage.”

“So you… _liquefied_ , our toaster.”

“In essence, yes.”

“Sherlock. Listen to me and listen carefully: you do not _melt_ , _burn_ , _break_ or otherwise ruin any of our electronics - any of our _appliances_ \- for whatever reason the act may serve. Ever. Are we clear? Clean. This. Mess.”

Without waiting for a reply, John turns on his heel and goes to buy a new toaster.  

***

A couple of uneventful days pass before something is amiss again. Sherlock is deep in case-files that were brought to their door earlier, and doesn’t even look John’s way for the better part of twelve hours. John decides that some time apart, for both of them, sounds like a healthy idea. He resolves to meet up with Greg for a quick pint.

Greg, kind, considerate Greg, has a pint waiting for John when he arrives.

“You’re looking quite well, for a man who had a building fall over on him not that long ago, mate.”

“I was damn lucky.”

“How’s himself? Last I heard the doctors said he’d be his old superior self in no time.”

John rubs his eyes between thumb and forefinger, and Greg grimaces.

“He’s much better. Getting a little antsy, though.”

“I can imagine. He’s not meant to be caged. He’s supposed to roam free and unleash his fury on unsuspecting Londoners.”

“It’s always disturbing to see him out of his element. It always shakes me up a bit. A bit of a throwback to… Well, bad times. Not really, it’s nothing bad. I just want him to be well.”

Greg says nothing, sipping his beer. He doesn’t need to. John’s always appreciated Greg’s sense of when to offer advice and when to shut up.

“How ‘bout you, mate? That explosion business must’ve been a shitload of paperwork.”

Greg releases a heavy sigh and slumps in his chair.

“You’ve no idea. Have yet to see the end of it.”

They sit and drink for a while longer, making small talk, when John feels the necessary “time apart” tip from welcome to _quite enough_.

“I’ll keep cases coming his way. I know it’s not the same, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

“Anything is better than nothing. Thanks for that.”

They say their goodbyes and head in opposite directions.  

John walks home, a tiny prickle of dread somewhere in his mind.

When he nears their residence this time, he’s alert for anything that 221B might be emitting.

And indeed, when he’s climbing their stairs, there is a sound.

John listens for a moment, and recognizes the all too familiar sound of the fire extinguisher.

This time, John _runs_.

Inside, Sherlock is in the middle of the living room, standing tall on one good leg, blowtorch in one hand, John’s jumper in the other. It doesn’t matter much which one - more or less each and every one of his jumpers is somewhere in the living room. He’ll reclaim some of them. Others are beyond his help.

And John realises that all the tenderness his heart can contain, all the feelings of elation, the love, the care, the unbreakable bond, aren’t worth a damn when he needs to deal with _this_.

Sure, they’re still there. They will always be there.

Only now, they are curled in hiding in face of his red-hot fury.

“ _Annoying_ ” doesn’t even begin to describe it.

It’s a good thing John has little room for anything but his fury in these moments – and that he is a one-track-mind kind of bloke – or he’d find himself caught in philosophical contemplation now.

How the same two people, can interact on what seems like an infinite spectrum, reach its opposite ends; how not three nights ago they exalted their regard for one another in an exquisite joinder of bodies and minds. How they now waddle in the mundane, banal, childish spite of situational ire.

Ah, to be human, indeed.

At the moment, John is also quite unsure how to react to the situation, without being sucked into its absurdity.

John opts for opening with stern calm.

“Sherlock. What the hell.”

Sherlock lifts his head and fixes John with a look of innocence and disinterest in equal measure.

“Sherlock. What the fuck.”

A minuscule eyebrow movement, and no more.

John is clenching both fists and his vision is tunnelling in a manner that causes mild concern.

This time he doesn’t ask. Doesn’t even want to know what kind of rubbish explanation Sherlock might produce. This has gone far enough.

“Sherlock, listen to me and listen carefully. You... are _unwell_!”

“You can hardly make this diagnosis, being just a GP.”

“Just a... _Just_ a GP?”

“Please, John, there's no need for insecurities stemming from your forced repatriation to resurface now, I simply meant that mental health is not your specialisation.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock looks at him, but instead of yelling some more, John just drops his shoulders and head, looking utterly dejected. As he turns to walk away, preferring to cool off rather than say something he’ll regret, he makes a “to hell with this” gesture with his hands, and catches a glimpse of Sherlock. He looks more concerned than during any of the shouting.

 

***

The weekend is quiet.

After the knit-flambé incident, John cools off and Sherlock tip-toes around the flat with caution fitting of a holy place.

Saturday night, John reads in bed, then puts his book aside and burrows deep under his blanket. An uncertain while later, Sherlock sneaks into their bedroom and slips between the sheets. He moulds himself around John’s side, and John couldn’t deny him this even if he wanted to.

On Sunday, Lestrade calls with a case and Sherlock consults with fervour from his makeshift operations room, delegating tasks and shooting orders from his place on the couch.

Later that day, Sherlock receives a delivery of fresh livers, courtesy of Molly, and is buzzing with excitement.

“Excellent! She actually followed orders this time. This is precisely what I needed for the vanishing tap-dancer case. I’ll get right-”

His enthusiasm seems to abate, and he stops mid-way to the kitchen.

“John.”

“Hmmm?”

“I’ve received these livers from Molly.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“I would need to dissect them.”

“Yes.”

“And run a few experiments.”

“Yes, I heard, I was here all along.”

“I would need to commandeer the kitchen table for two hours. Three at most.”

John stares at him, forehead creased, not sure in the slightest where this is going.

“Would that be acceptable?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Would it be okay, John, if I occupy the kitchen table for two to three hours, starting now?”

John gapes. Blinks a few times, searching for words.

“You’re asking me if you can use the kitchen table for an experiment?”

“I am.”

“You’ve never asked me if you could use… well, anything, in the years I’ve known you.”

“I am, now.”

“Why?”

“I’m told it’s the courteous thing to do.”

“You’re never… courteous.”

Sherlock’s face changes from accommodating to impatient.

On the off-chance that something positive is transpiring, John decides to not forego this rare opportunity for positive reinforcement.

“Yes. Yes, of course. You can use the kitchen table for as long as you want. Thank you for asking.”

Sherlock wastes no time, and walks into the kitchen.

John decides to give his gaping another ten minutes.

***

The following week is serene. John thinks that this is probably what normal people mean when they say “domestic bliss.” Sherlock has reached the stage in which pain is not pronounced enough to stop him, but in which it is still crucial for his healing that he does not throw himself into the Work with his typical abandon.

This is the stage in which Sherlock’s restlessness would normally reach its melting point. John notes that last week did feature a melting incident (and a fire incident followed), considering that maybe that was it, but no. He knows his love for all his oddities, and Sherlock is unnaturally calm for the circumstances.

Sure, he consults remotely on the occasional case, does his usual experiments and blows off some steam, but his relative ease can only mean one thing.

Sherlock is up to something.

John just hopes against hope, that this something will not result in harm to body or property.

He knows better than to risk asking “Why are you being so goddamn nice?” on the off chance that this is unintentional. But he does prefer knowing what Sherlock is up to. As a courtesy to Mrs Hudson and to the soundness of his mind.

John tries to subtly gather clues, mindful of the risk unnecessary probing poses to this delicate equilibrium, but reaches no conclusion.

The next time John ventures out of the flat for a long shift at the surgery, he wonders whether Sherlock’s low-key attitude is a cause for celebration or concern. He seems okay, truly. He looks at cases with his usual demeanour and snaps at Lestrade at his regular frequency, his experiments walk the same old line between scientific and perverse. He’s also his usual affectionate self. John laughs at this, an actual sound in the crisp morning air; a few years ago, if the words “Sherlock” and “affectionate” were to appear in the same sentence, John would expect the words “ _does not tolerate anyone who is_ ,” to appear between them. But he is, John knows now. Has known for quite some time. Not always in what one would consider the everyday sense of the term, but always in a way that communicates to John, in no uncertain terms.

This time, when John – weary and in dire need of tea – climbs the stairs home, he’s greeted by nothing but silence. His experience here, though, has taught him that this could be a more disconcerting sign than any noise.

But when he pushes in, the flat is in very much the same condition it was when he left. He knows better than to believe a superficial look around, but is not inclined to investigate any further, as the main threat to the sanctity of their home is curled asleep on the couch.

John goes about his evening routine. When Sherlock wakes up they order chinese, watch some crap telly, and eventually turn in.

Sherlock presses against John, burying his face in the crook of his neck, and since injuries have been healing at a satisfactory rate, they allow themselves to engage in acts a bit more enthusiastic than they have the past couple of weeks.  

As they move against each other, Sherlock murmuring and gasping in John’s ear, John thinks that the resolution for this day, their enthusiastic lovemaking, is absolutely fantastic.   

Later when they lie entangled, catching their breath, John thinks that the level of intensity matters little - it’s _always_ fantastic.

The next morning, a yawning and stretching John saunters out of the bedroom and decides a cup of tea is in order.

Sherlock is perched over his microscope, and raises his head as he hears John walking over.

He lets his hands fall from the table and sends a smile John’s way.

And John thinks that whatever this new pastime might be, it makes Sherlock resonate _just_ the way that makes John feel that Sherlock-tenderness, the swirling feeling low in his belly, deep in his gut.

***

Sherlock’s recovery continues at a satisfying pace, and soon he is allowed out unescorted, under strict orders to “Be the fuck a little mindful of your ‘ _transport_ ,’ yeah?”

Sherlock chooses a modest venture to the Yard, and John sits in their living room, reading, drinking tea, but mostly convincing himself that allowing Sherlock out was a good idea.

He’s at it for approximately thirty minutes, when he hears the doorbell ring.

Moderately concerned, for no particular reason other than the fact he doesn’t currently have eyes on Sherlock, he hurries to the door and opens it.

“Mrs Holmes, I… Hi, Sherlock didn’t mention you were stopping by. We’ve nothing but tea.”

“John, please, I’ve repeatedly asked you to call me Marie. And tea would be lovely.”

John moves to assist her with the box she is carrying, but she declines.

“No need, dear, it’s not heavy in the slightest. Just some old things Sherlock asked for.”

She pushes past him and up the stairs, as brisk and purposeful as her younger son.

Mummy Holmes leaves the box by their door, gives John her jacket and heads to sit on the couch.

John goes to make tea and even manages to find some edible biscuits, and walks back to the living room.

Marie Holmes and John bonded from the very start. She liked the seemingly unassuming doctor who made a permanent residence in her son’s heart; John appreciated the sharp-minded woman, and felt a _no one but us knows what he’s like on the inside_ kinship to her.

“The past few weeks must have been hard on you.”

“It’s never easy when he’s in pain.”

“It’s never easy when he _is_ a pain.”

John smiles. He knows she’s trying to lighten the mood, help him unwind a bit.

She smiles too, and they share a knowing look.

“You take care of him, John. I’ll always worry about him, but it was tenfold before you.” She carries on, not letting the moment tip into the awkward side of sentimental. “You got a bit roughed up yourself. Back to work already?”

“Yeah… It was nothing, really. And there’s only so long a bloke can sit at home staring at the wall, especially when Sherlock is up to his ears in case files.”

“I’ll say. Tell me John, has he gone _non compos mentis_ of boredom yet?”

“You know, I thought he would. Was very close for a bit… But then he just… didn’t. Well, by his standards, at least.”

Mummy Holmes says nothing. She nods once and sips her tea with her quiet elegance, and she seems rather pleased, all in all, with how things are going with her son.

When Mummy leaves, John carries the box to Sherlock’s chair, thinking he’d want to go through it when he’s back home – considering he’d asked for it.

John is not a man of many secrets, but he likes to keep some privacy, some small spaces to call his own - his laptop, for example. Not that there is much use to such a wish when cohabitating with Sherlock Holmes. But, John values the idea nonetheless and endeavours to at least demonstrate to Sherlock how it’s done. So, he doesn’t mean to pry, doesn’t go through the box, but his eye catches on what looks like knitting needles, peeking out from in-between some journals.

John is a bit puzzled, but there’s a whole world of artefacts Sherlock has used as aids during investigations, and these are far from being the weirdest.

 

***

Sherlock is not yet given a complete clean bill of health from John - unjustly in the opinion of his huffing and groaning self - but is gradually returning to full activity, and thus, a few days later he is accompanying Lestrade to a crime scene. A completely safe one - Greg swore. John is getting home from a shift, with the intention of changing and heading to said crime scene to meet Sherlock, when he runs into Mrs Hudson exiting their flat.

“Oh, hello, dear. I didn’t hear you coming in. You must’ve picked up some stealth tricks from that man of yours.”

“I was in the army, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, of course, dear. You’re a man of many talents. That’s why he was so taken with you from the very first moment.

“Tell him I left what he asked for in a bag on the kitchen table. He really got into a state with that one, it’s a bit of a tricky choice. But the colour is so very lovely!”

“Ah, yeah, sure thing, Mrs Hudson, ta.”

John has no time to ponder the casually-delivered cryptic message, and he changes and heads to the crime scene.

It’s the first one they’ve gone to since Sherlock was injured, and thoughts of propriety give way to the cogent flood of relief as he nears the crime scene and hears Sherlock’s familiar condescending timbre. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting - Sherlock is almost completely healed, and getting better. John always recognizes his repressed fears during moments which assuage them.

So John surrenders to this feeling, for a moment. It’s good to see Sherlock back to himself.

The case turns out to be a four, if you squint, and Sherlock strides out of the crime-scene after having informed Lestrade that his physical recuperation is indeed progressing satisfactorily, but insults to his cognitive faculties may prolong the process.  

In the cab home Sherlock presses against John’s side, placing his hand on John’s thigh, looking out the window.

Though Sherlock is hardly the poster-boy for public displays of affection, he has been known to initiate the occasional, subtle, unsolicited touch. So John does not question this, taking Sherlock’s hand in his, looking out his own window.

When they get home it’s clear that the short outing has taken its toll on the still recovering detective, and John sends a petulant Sherlock to their bedroom.

“I’m not a child, John, I’ve been injured before, as you well know.”

“I do, love, I was there a high percentage of the incidents.

“You’ve been on that ankle of yours for a few hours now, will do you good to get off your feet. You don’t have to sleep at once. Read, take a walk in that great mind palace of yours, hack into my laptop. Just do it lying down.”

Sherlock relents, and five minutes later he’s in their bed and John is making a light evening snack. He makes some tea, some toast, and carries a tray to the bedroom. He doubts the recent events did any favours to Sherlock’s appetite, but when one’s life is as unpredictable as John’s, optimism is a virtue.

Inside, Sherlock is fast asleep, and John stops and stares. Yes, Sherlock is unpredictable, yet within this framework, this is still not what John would’ve expected.

Sherlock is reclined against the headboard, having clearly fallen asleep without a solid plan to do so. Soft blue fabric cascades over his still hands, circular knitting needle forgotten at his side. And John thinks that there is no need to take a moment to memorize the scene, because one day when there’s no trace of the blond in his hair, or the vitality of youth in his body, and his mind and heart are full of endless memories, this one will be as clear and lucid as it is this very moment.

He recognizes the shade as the one Sherlock thinks as most flattering on John.

He really thinks he should’ve known. Not every answer about this man is complicated. His mind is complex and multilayered, but his emotions are surprisingly straightforward. Even if conveying them isn’t.

To the world at large, he is averse to the mundane. But John knows that controlled acts of affection is his method of choice when showing he cares.

Proud of his moment of clarity, John smiles to himself. This is for him.

His lips pull in a small smile, and he quietly closes the door behind him.

He won’t say anything. The finished product is most likely meant to be a surprise.

 

***

A few days go by, in their version of normalcy. John has a few shifts, there is one case, Sherlock sustains a small cut on his forehead. John scolds him, a bit too emphatically, that he “should be bloody more careful on his sodding cases,” and Sherlock replies, “I hit my head on a shelf, John, it hardly has anything to do with this particular case, or any other, for that matter.”

Friday night they decide to eat out, and are walking back home, when Sherlock declares, “I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

“It’s at the flat. Nothing big. I just wanted to say thank you. For putting up with me, when I was confined to our walls. I know I’m a handful on a good day.”

“I’m quite used to your antics by now, love.”

“People get used to slavery and missing limbs. They would still favour avoiding these, if given the chance.”

John stops, looks at Sherlock, jaw working for a few seconds before words come out.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, Sherlock, I’m never gonna go anywhere. You must know this by now.”

“I do, John, but, I’m certain it’s not always the easiest choice to make.”

John feels quite sober now.

“It’s the easiest choice I’ve ever made, always is.”

Sherlock nods and looks ahead, resumes walking.

They arrive home, shed their coats, and John fixes a drink for them, carries it to the living room, turns the telly on.

Sherlock emerges from their bedroom, gift box in hand.

He sits on the couch, body turned to John, and silently hands him his gift.

John smiles at him, and his lips twitch back in reaction.

“Thanks, love.”

John opens the box.

Inside is a jumper in a deep, elegant blue of the softest fabric John has ever touched. A cashmere-wool blend, Sherlock informs him.

With an unmistakable Brioni tag on it.

John frowns in utter confusion.

“Do you not like it?”

“I… I love it, Sherlock. It’s without a doubt the fanciest jumper I’ve ever owned.”

“I thought you could do with a little luxury.”

John leans forward, kisses his lips.

“I’m a man of meagre requirement, you really don’t need to buy me anything fancy.”

“I’d be lying if I said it was a completely selfless act. Your current wardrobe only serves as a means to throw off felons, and provide us with an advantage during hand-to-hand combat situations.”

John huffs. He’s puzzled, but not sure how to bring up “Hey, where’s that secret jumper you were making for me?”

So he pulls his jumper off, trying on the new one, Sherlock observing with clear approval. He takes it off again saying he’ll save it for “special occasions,” prompting the reply, “It’s a jumper John, not a ball gown,” as well as the observation that there really is no reason for John to put anything back on, and John pulls Sherlock on top of him, and they spend the next forty-five minutes ignoring the background noise of the telly.

 

***

Saturday rolls into John’s consciousness slow and hazy. He scrunches his face and stretches his muscles before rolling over and reaching for his phone.

_Lestrade isn’t capable of finalizing the most unequivocal of cases unsupervised. One could swap all the officers of the Met with the janitors working here, and no one would notice a difference. Except maybe they’d be more mindful of the integrity of the crime scenes. Back by noon. SH_

John rolls his eyes for good measure and drags himself out of bed.

He takes his time, emptying his bladder, brushing his teeth, taking a shower a bit longer than strictly necessary. He’s getting ready for a day of utter relaxation. He’ll read that book of his, drink his body-weight in tea, munch on Mrs Hudson’s latest batch of biscuits, and he’ll finish the day by giving Sherlock particularly indulgent head. He thinks this sounds like an excellent itinerary.  

He walks into the kitchen and releases the smallest grunt. He won’t be able to achieve true relaxation with this amount of dirty dishes waiting for him and the rubbish apparently planning a coup. He’ll clear the sink, take out the trash, and then he’ll relax his brains out.

Dishes done, John ties the garbage bag and heads downstairs.

He opens the bin’s lid and flings it in.

Just before he’s about to close it and turn back, his eye spots a familiar box at the corner of the bin.

The box of his Brioni jumper.

John freezes in place. Not because he is particularly attached to said box, or planned on keeping it. But because the only likely explanation for how this box migrated from its previous location in their bedroom to its current one, is that Sherlock put it there. Which to be honest, isn’t likely at all.

For Sherlock to take out the trash, something truly alarming had to happen.

And thus, John is alarmed.

He reaches for the box, takes it out, opens it, not sure what he’s expecting to find.

Inside, neatly folded, is his jumper. Not the Brioni one. No. The other one, the one he never got. The one Sherlock made for him. Mercifully clean due to the box and the fact it managed to avoid close encounters with any rubbish.

He takes no time to scrutinise it. He slips his current jumper off in one swift move, and puts on his new one.

It’s a bit too wide. The right arm is noticeably longer than the left, and looking down at himself, a few small errors in the pattern are noticeable. It’s soft, so soft. And by the grace of the aforementioned box, it smells of nothing but Sherlock. He’s never owned a more perfect garment.

John throws the empty box back into the bin, and heads upstairs.

About two hours later, determined footsteps and a rumble in Mrs Hudson’s direction announce Sherlock’s return.

John is well underway with his schedule for the day, seated comfortably in his chair, book in one hand, cup of tea in the other.

Sherlock strides in with his usual swagger, then comes to a very sudden halt.

“John.”

“Oh, hello, love. Made any Yarders cry today?”

“What are you wearing?”

“It’s very unlike you to inquire about the obvious, love.”

“You… You took this out of the rubbish bin… and… wore it?”

“It was for me, wasn’t it? I’m not quite at your level with this deduction business, but I’m pretty sure I got this one right. A bit of a weird choice of storage, but I found it, anyway.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, yet no sound comes out.

John takes mercy on the befuddled detective, and decides ploughing forward is the right choice of action.

“Why did you throw it away? Not entirely sure when you started, but I’m positive you’ve been working on it for quite some time.”

Sherlock sighs, looks down, resolves to go ahead with this conversation.

“At first I was just looking for a distraction, something of a less destructive nature in comparison to my other ones. Then I realised I should make something for you.

“I started it a dozen times.

“The yarn I used was merino and mohair wool blend. Once it’s knitted, the stitches stick together, making it very difficult to unpick.

“I haven’t done this since primary school, when my grandmother was still alive.

“I… I went on with this one, just to see what would turn out. If I’d started another one it would’ve never been finished in time to give it to you now.

“So when I was done, saw how it turned out, I decided I’d better find something more… worthy of you.”

John feels his breath catch, which feels a bit absurd, since they’re discussing a jumper, yet not precisely.

He gets up, takes a step toward Sherlock, takes his face in both hands.

He guides Sherlock towards him, kisses him once, with intent. He looks up at him, searching for a beat. He takes Sherlock’s hand and leads him to their bedroom, closes the door behind them.

Sherlock is still. Not quite passive but rather pliant. He lets John divest him of his clothes. Watches as John sheds his own.

John walks Sherlock back towards their bed, and lays him down with the gentlest care. He waits not a moment, covering Sherlock’s body with his own.

And John looks down at this peculiar man, this one of a kind contradiction - both a closed door and an open book - who thinks that anything of him may not be worthy of John. He feels the same urge that has been coursing through his veins since the moment they met - to protect him - amplify into a tempest. He holds himself in place and just looks, looks at Sherlock, hoping that this man who sees everything, will see this absolute truth.  

Then, finally, he lowers his head, and touches his lips to Sherlock’s, because out of all the acts of coalescing, fusing together, communicating on the most elemental of levels, he _knows_ this is the one most conspicuous to the man - so observant elsewhere - still apprehensive here.

He wants to bring Sherlock pleasure, he always does. But this very moment he cannot bear to change their position, to expose the vulnerable body beneath him - to nothing in particular, and yet he has this need to shelter. He knows it’s emblematic, but the way Sherlock is looking at him, it does not seem that he abhors the sentiment.

So John stays.

They are both hard against each other, so John readies Sherlock, raises himself just a fraction, and pushes himself down, forward, into Sherlock.

He’s slow, and purposeful, this evening is not for urgency. Sherlock is looking up at him wearing a new expression for John’s vast collection of everything Sherlock.

When he’s fully seated, and Sherlock is still looking at him in this contemplative, solemn manner, John can’t help but smile, and release a one-syllable laugh on Sherlock’s cheek, because he needs to reassure him, now too, that it’s still the same them.

John starts moving, because he wants to tell Sherlock with his body, that it’s okay. That even when their emotions seem too ungainly to put into words, they always manage to get the message through, unscrambled.

Sherlock arches up to him, seeking his warmth, his touch, his thrusts.

John looks into his face and knows. Knows that he sees, that he fathoms.

His pace increases along with the intensity, John driving into Sherlock, Sherlock’s cock trapped between their bellies.

They keep their eyes wide open, locked on the other’s, as their faces contort and their bodies go rigid. Shared breath hot between them, they cling to each other through the aftershock.

Not quite ready to end his protective spell, John stays in place, distributing languid kisses along Sherlock’s tilted jawline.

They stay entwined for a while, Sherlock with his eyes closed, head thrown back on his pillow, John between his legs, with his ear against Sherlock’s sternum, hand feathering over his healing ribs.

He feels Sherlock craning his neck, kissing the crown of his head.

“I… I drive you mad.”

John takes Sherlock’s right hand, kisses his fingers.

“Yeah, you really do.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“You don’t need to be anything else, love.”

“I know. It’s just that sometimes my very expertise seem to manifest as inadequacies. I’m fairly certain I couldn’t keep one without the other.”

“I wouldn’t want you to. See, you’re twice as annoying as the average bloke. Wait, no, roll back here,” John looks at him, holds his chin up to prevent him from looking away, “But you’re at least ten times more incredible -”

“Just ten?”

“- and that’s a pretty good payoff.”

“I do like a good mathematical proof.”

John gathers him close, kisses his brow.

“John?”

“Hmmm.”

“Are you really gonna wear that hideous jumper?”

“It’s not hideous, it’s perfect.”

“The craftsmanship leaves something to be desired. I’m not sure I can be associated with such mediocrity.”

“Really? I thought you’d think it’s right in line with the wearer.”

Sherlock chuckles, burrows closer, looks at John.

“You know that of all my pastimes, from the most benign to the most destructive, you’ve always been my greatest distraction.”

“Course I do. You’ve always been mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Brioni jumper (from a previous season) - aka sweater - I had in mind, was stated to be “70% cashmere, 70% silk.” Apparently, with enough money, you can beat anything. Even mathematics.


End file.
